


got a curse we cannot lift

by icarusandtheson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Blood Drinking, Complicated Relationships, Hopeful Ending, Horror Elements, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Monster!Alex, Mutual Pining, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-29 23:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12095640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusandtheson/pseuds/icarusandtheson
Summary: Alexander turns up at his employer's doorstep in quite a state. George adjusts his evening plans accordingly.





	got a curse we cannot lift

**Author's Note:**

> For Hobbes, who read this when it was just an idea in a chat, and again when it mutated into what it is now.

George wakes up to darkness, dazed and occupying that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. It takes less than a moment for him to realize what woke him -- loud knocking at his front door, increasing in volume and intensity as each second passes. It will pause, return, pause, return, each time sounding less like knocking and more like someone is trying to take down his door.

The alarm system hasn’t gone off, so either he’s dealing with the absolute stupidest thief, or there’s some sort of emergency going on outside. He pulls on a shirt and grabs his phone, pads quickly down the stairs. The pounding sounds nearly desperate from this close, and if George listens hard he thinks he can make out a voice.  

Just as he's pulling up the security camera feed on his phone -- "Sir, please! Let me in!"

The feed comes up: a familiar small-set shape, wide dark eyes glancing around anxiously. George is tugging the door open before he's properly considered the how and why of it, instinct overriding logic and caution.

And there's Alexander, curled in on himself and trembling outside George's front door at two in the morning. His head snaps up at the sound of the door opening, a ragged, relieved sound escaping him and tearing through George’s chest in its shocking vulnerability. "Thank God."

"Alexander?" George asks, doesn't have time for more because Alex is swaying on his feet and looks like he might crumple to the ground. "Come in, what -- are you alright?"

"No," Alex mutters, shaking his head as George steps aside. "Fuck, no, no, no."

George isn't sure if Alex is responding or panicking, and as his mind reels he reaches for the lightswitch.

Alex flinches from the lights, making a wounded sound as he ducks his head, and as George blinks the stars from his vision he focuses on the bloody mess on Alex's neck. His heart seizes painfully in his chest. He’s not completely certain that he isn’t still asleep -- this wouldn’t be the first nightmare he’s had with Alex torn up and bleeding before him, though his wounds in those dreams are usually vague and bloody, or else interpretations of injuries George has seen in his deployment.

"What happened?" George asks, hand coming up to assess the damage. He can vaguely make out what look like teeth marks, overlaid by deep scratches running nearly the entire way from Alex’s ear to his jugular. His first thought is a stray animal, maybe a dog, but the indent pattern isn’t right.  

Alex flinches back, head snapping back up to regard George with wide, terrified eyes. "No, don't!" He nearly shouts it, voice cracking, something dark and fearful flashing across his face.

George pulls his hand away as if scalded, bile rising at the back of his throat. Distantly, he’s thankful the door is already closed. He’s dreamt those same words out of Alex’s mouth, on nights he woke sickened and burning with self-hate, and it’s more than enough to remind him of proper boundaries.     

"I'm sorry," George says softly, pulling away to give the boy some space. The absolute last thing he wants is for Alex to bolt back out into the night, clawed open and likely in shock.   

Alex shakes his head, expression clouding over in familiar frustration for a moment before he shuts his eyes again with a groan. “Lights,” he rasps.

“What?”

Alex makes a low, throaty sound that’s almost a growl. “Off, turn them off.”

George does, and Alex lets out a soft sigh that’s still less relief than pain. “Is that better?”

Alex huffs a bitter-sounding laugh. “Not really, but thanks.” He’s semi-visible in the light that spills down from upstairs, and when his eyes open to fixate on George, they shine dark.

A bolt of electricity surges down George’s spine, his gut twisting. It’s a variation on the usual theme of longing and tangled-up desires that usually plague him around Alex. Fear, maybe, at seeing his usually lively boy so listless and drawn.

"You need a hospital," George says, pulling himself out of the almost dream-like panic of seeing his assistant bleeding out in front of him. He starts to dial 911, but Alex shakes his head vehemently, reaching out plaintively.

"No, no hospitals, I -- oh, God..." His entire body convulses, and George reaches out on instinct before remembering Alex’s earlier reaction and pulling back.

“Alexander,” George says, and it’s impossible to keep the heartbreak from his voice as the boy trembles in front of him. “What can I do?”

Alex stills, rights himself through what seems like an extraordinary exertion of will, and exhales a heavy breath. "I need to lie down."

"Alright," George says, even though this is insane, but he'll call an ambulance once he has Alex settled, and... and the neck wound looks bad, it does, but it doesn't seem to be getting worse, the blood is tacky and dried in places, not fresh. He can get Alex calm, and then get him medical attention. George will take care of the hospital bill, if that’s the source of all this stress. Surely, Alex knows he would do that without question?

George forces himself to breath, to slow his heart rate enough to clear his mind. "You could... I'm not sure if the couch is enough, or --"

"Bed," Alex says, almost a plea, and then looks mildly horrified at his own request.

George controls his expression carefully. A lick of heat, easily snuffed out by Alex’s hurt, sickened expression before it even has the chance to fully unfurl.

"I -- I’m sorry, I can't control the twitching. I'd fall of the couch.” Alex huffs a bitter laugh, averting his gaze. “Maybe I’d knock myself out, unconsciousness sounds pretty good right now."

"Can you make it upstairs?" George asks, eyeing the boy worriedly.  

Alex lets out a low, pained whine. Right. Probably not, then.

"Is it alright if I carry you?" he asks hesitantly, half-expecting Alex to take off running considering his earlier reaction.

Alex looks up at him with wide eyes, and at the too-bright shine of them, George realizes they’re glistening with pained tears. He looks so young, and so frightened, and when he inclines his head in the tiniest of nods, George closes the distance between them in half a moment. He pushes down the tangled mess of his feelings -- for his employee, a kid half his age for Christ’s sake -- and focuses on picking Alex up as gently as possible, bracing Alex’s head with one hand to avoid jostling the wound. The wound which looks so, so much worse up close.

"Sorry," Alex mutters against George's chest, going practically boneless in George’s arms. George chokes out something that might have been a laugh -- he’s never heard Alex apologize for anything, including the Lee debacle -- if the smell of Alex’s blood wasn’t everywhere, iron and rust and salt and something _strange_ that makes George's stomach churn. He's seen worse injuries in his deployment, seen far more blood than this, but now... now, it's Alex. It’s not a dream, and George has no second chances, if --

“It’s alright, son. I’ve got you.” George tries to keep his grip light, moves as quickly and smoothly as he can. It's worryingly easy, carrying the boy. George feels Alex's ribs sticking out against his palm and frowns, tries to recall the last time he saw Alex actually eating on his lunch break rather than writing feverishly or researching, but that concern will have to wait. Alex's breathing is labored -- short, small bursts of air puff against George’s neck, and when he lays a palm against Alex’s back, Alex’s heartbeat pounds.

Alex’s shirt is sweated through, and every now and again his fists will clench in George's shirt and his breaths will spike into cries. It's a blessing and a curse, to finally lay him down on the bed. The sight of him writhing against the bedclothes, muttering nonsense and in agony, dredges up cold fear in George’s heart, an almost vicious urge to protect that he can’t help but lean into.

"Sorry about your sheets," Alex mutters, twisting his head against George’s pillow as George turns off all the lights they can do without, dimming the bedroom as best as he can. “About all of this…”

"It's fine," George says, because what else can he say? No measure of sweat and blood could possibly compare to Alex’s comfort, his life, but to admit to that out loud would shatter whatever tenuous friendship Alexander has allowed him over the course of his employment. As it stands, he can’t grasp why the boy would come here when hurt, when he’s bucked under any of George’s attempts at comfort for far less severe issues in the past.

"We need to get you cleaned up," George mutters, stepping towards the bathroom, only to be stopped by Alex's hand around his wrist, tugging with surprising strength.

"It's fine," Alex mutters. "John already cleaned it. Bandaged me up."

George frowns in confusion. Laurens is usually incredibly protective of his friend -- if he knew Alex was in this state, how could he let him leave, especially having done such a poor job of caring for him?  "But it's..."

"A mess?" Alex laughs, devoid of humor. "It itched like hell, I couldn't... couldn't stop myself." A small, grim smile curls his mouth. “Felt damned good, too.”

George goes still with horror. "You did this to yourself?"

"Can't be alone," Alex mutters, eyes rolling to focus on the ceiling. "Or maybe I should be, maybe I should've torn it all out..."

"None of that, son.” It’s a struggle to keep his voice even, not that he’s even sure that Alex is still speaking to him. He’s approaching delirium, if the fever hasn’t brought him there already.  

Alex makes a small sound, amused and sad at once. “Your son.”

George grimaces, remembering their last explosive argument and feeling no desire to dredge it up now. “I’m sorry --”

Alex shakes his head once, sharp. “Doesn’t matter.” He shuts his eyes, gulping before another shudder wracks him. "Fucking -- goddamit, what is this, I don't... what is this?"

"Tell me what happened," George says, partially to distract the boy and partially because he needs information to help. He should have called an ambulance already, doesn’t know why he hasn’t. Alex being angry at him isn’t a good enough reason to risk the boy’s life, no matter how much George values his regard. His only selfless excuse is that he doesn’t trust Alex to stay put in this state if he feels unsafe. George could restrain him physically, if he had to, but the idea is like a knife through him.   

Alex’s expression twists with the effort it takes to obey and speak. "We were... at a club, went for a smoke -- alone, stupid, some guy -- _fuck,_  jumped me, bit me, motherfucker, but I got him off. The guys were looking for me, heard me scream. It burned, but this… didn’t hurt like this until we got home, until I tried to sleep... it wasn't even that deep, I don't -- ah!" He twists, buries his face into the pillow and trembles, breaths ragged.

“It’s alright,” George soothes, fighting not to let his alarm show. “That’s enough, just rest for me.”

Alex shudders, but seems unable to contain his next words. "I couldn't stay, I was -- my friends, I was so scared."

George doesn’t relax, exactly, but the presence of a viable explanation helps clear his mind. Some sort of drug or infection, then. Something in the attacker's system, warping Alex's brain. He shakes his head slowly, reaches for his phone again. "Your friends would never hurt you, Alex."

Alex goes very still, and his next breath is wet. "I know," he says, barely a whisper. He turns his head slightly, and his eyes are impossibly large and dark in the low light. "I think I did a bad thing, sir. Coming here."

Some instinct tugs at the base of George's brain, old and strong and terrified, but he pushes it away. "Of course not. You did well, my boy. So well."

Alex shudders, and a slow smile spreads across his mouth. "There was a time that's all I wanted to hear from you, y'know that? Worked so damned hard, all hours... the guys dragged me out tonight because I'd been working on notes for that stupid fundraiser speech for you, and I should've stayed home. Fucking should've stayed home ."

George is powerless in the face of that smile, of that admission and the guilt it pulls from him, and it’s too easy to fall to his knees beside the bed and lay a cautious hand on Alex’s back. When Alex doesn’t protest, only trembles at the touch, George rubs his hand in slow circles, not sure if Alex’s ensuing choked-off gasp scares him more or less than his brutal honesty. "It's alright, my boy. It's going to be alright, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere until you're well again."

Alex says, "I don't think that's going to happen, sir," in the voice of a man who's made his peace. George has heard it a hundred times before, from boys as young as Alex, but it’s so utterly wrong coming from this unstoppable force who has done nothing but fight since he all but stormed into George’s office that fateful first day.

"Stop that," George snaps, regretting the force of his voice a moment latter. He tries to reach for calm, but Alex has always had a talent for pulling his temper to the forefront.

Alex trembles under his hand, but doesn’t flinch back. Doesn’t seem frightened, thank goodness. He pushes back into George’s touch, and George redoubles his efforts, trying to knead out some of the terrible knots tangled in the boy’s back. George doesn’t pretend to think they’re all from today’s stress, and feels twin pangs of irritation and sorrow, that Alex pays himself so little care.

Alex is quiet for a long moment, and then, "Your heart is beating too fast, sir. Careful with your blood pressure."

George huffs. "Forgive me for worrying." He rests his palm flat against Alex’s back once more, wondering how he can tell the speed of his heartbeat from this one point of contact. “I’m more worried about your heart right now, my boy.”

Alex sighs, almost disappointed. "Bad idea, sir. I told you."

"And yet you haven't explained why." That tug, again, somewhere deep in him. Not fear exactly, thought maybe it should be. Alex watches him with an unreadable expression.

"Sir --"

"You're bleeding all over my bed sheets, I think you can call me George at this point."

Another slow smile. Beautiful, pained though it is. "George." Holds the word in his mouth like it's something precious, something sweet to melt on his tongue. For a moment, something tragic flashes across his face, pain and regret too strong for someone so young. It’s gone within a moment, though, replaced with a slightly shakier smile. "Can I have some water?"

George blinks, a little surprised at the abruptness of the request, the normalcy. "Of course." He shakes himself out of the warm stupor of hearing his name fall from Alex’s lips and rises to head to the bathroom, pausing at the doorway. "You'll be alright? You said you shouldn't be alone."

"I'm okay.” Alex inclines his head in a little nod. His expression is dazed, a bit lost, as he pushes up onto his elbows. “I’m so thirsty, sir. Please.”

George nods, but stays where he is for a moment. Something feels wrong here, but he can’t place it for the life of him. Alex watches him, smile still lingering, eyes tracing George’s face as if he’s memorizing it. It’s a foolish thought from a foolish old man, and George forces himself to stop staring like an idiot, heads into the bathroom before the moment sours with awkwardness. He rummages under the sink for a clean cup -- he’d prefer not to give the boy tap water, but he’s loathe to leave him for long enough to go back downstairs. Just as he reaches for the tap, he hears a click, the familiar sound of his window sliding up --

"Alexander!" George rushes back into the bedroom just in time to see Alex climb out on trembling legs, balancing precariously on the windowsill.

George shouts, a wordless, desperate sound, and lunges for the window just as Alex starts to slip. Somehow, by the grace of some god George will thank a thousand times over if this ends without disaster, he gets a hand around the boy's ankle, another fisted tightly in the hem of his shirt.

"Let go," Alex’s eyes are wild with desperation, but the immovable determination is there as well, so familiar and so out of place here that it makes George ill. Guilt and horror constrict his throat, and he curses himself for not listening to his instincts. Alex isn’t in his right mind now, what was he thinking leaving the boy alone? Is he so helpless in the face of this boy’s requests?

George shakes his head, too overcome to even dignify that insanity with a response, and pulls the boy back inside by the waist with a grip that will surely bruise. Alex stumbles against his chest, and the sound he makes is almost animal in its grief.

"Are you insane?" George snaps, grabbing him by the shoulders. "What the hell are you trying to do?"

"George, you need to let me go," Alex says fervently. He tugs against George’s grasp, yelps softly as George tightens his grip.

"You would have died!" George sees it so clearly, Alex slipping from his grasp and falling to the sidewalk below, brilliant brain dashed to pieces, beautiful face torn beyond recognition.

"Hopefully.” Alex’s eyes flicker to the window, lit with that manic gleam he always has when trying to argue a point. "I have a feeling not for long, so you have to -- it has to be now, please sir." He turns pleading eyes on George. “Let me go.”

"No," George growls, securing an arm around Alex’s middle, even as the boy struggles and shoves against him. He’s strong, for someone so feverish, and it takes some effort for George to keep him caught.

His nails catch on George’s collarbone, sharp and stinging. "No, no! I don't want to, please..."

"No one will hurt you," George promises, feeling sick at whatever delusions Alex’s fevered brain must be torturing him with, at what role George plays in them. "I'm not going to hurt you." He keeps a hand against Alex's head, fumbles with the other to shut the window.

“I know,” Alex says, nearly a wail, and the fight bleeds right out of him. His skin, where George holds him fast, is sweltering. George sighs deeply and strokes Alex's hair without thinking, a gesture of comfort now that the immediate danger has passed. He freezes halfway through the motion as his conscious mind catches up to his actions, sure he’s overstepped. But it earns him a quiet sound of approval, so he keeps on with it. One or both of them is shaking, and the repetitive motion helps him focus, as does the softness of Alex’s hair sliding between his fingers. He rolls his shoulder, grimacing slightly at the sting where Alex clawed him.

Alex chokes on a broken sound as George scratches softly at his scalp, pressing close with an urgency that George has to brace himself against. “Alexander?” he tries, fighting down a warm wave of desire that has no place here.

Alex stares up at him hazily, something like realization crossing his features as he breathes in deep. He nuzzles forward, breath ghosting across George’s skin as he exhales. George knows he needs to step back, he can’t trust himself with this kind of proximity. But Alex reaches up and curls his arms around George’s neck, anchoring them together. Hopelessly confused at the abrupt turnaround and half-hard already, George flounders for a response.

The open-mouthed kiss Alex presses by his pulse point is a cold shock followed by impossible heat, and even as his blood rushes south in response, the gravity of the situation settles over him. Alex wouldn’t do this. Alex, who’s called him an reprehensible coward and a short-sighted idiot during their arguments this month alone. Alex, who freezes under and then ducks away from the slightest touch of George’s hand on his shoulder without fail.

“Alexander,” George repeats more firmly, fighting for his composure under the wet heat of Alex’s mouth, fighting to speak around his heart beating in his throat. He hopes it’s enough to pull Alex back to lucidity, it has to be, because he’s lost all words that aren’t his boy’s name.

Alex whines, tongue sliding against George’s jugular and down to his collarbone. The briefest prick of teeth, pressing into the scratch. George sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, more surprise than pain. Alex’s stomach gurgles, the sound deafening in the otherwise perfect silence.

In the space of a heartbeat, Alex unwinds himself from George’s body and shoves back from him roughly, sending both of them stumbling in opposite directions.

Alex pants, hand pressed to the back of his mouth. In the dim light, his eyes are utterly black. His other hand is pressed against his stomach, as if trying to stifle the steady growling.

“Alexander?” George swallows hard, mind fogged over with confusion and a year’s worth of that messy, inexplicable draw he can’t help but feel towards his boy. “What…”

Alex drops both hands to his stomach, gripping so tightly George imagines it will bruise in neat little splotches. “I’m sorry.” His mouth shines slick, saliva and a smear of darkness that has to be George’s blood. “I’m so sorry.”

George reaches up to press his fingertips to his collarbone, slick from Alex’s tongue. He’s achingly hard, but shame is a distant thing right now, despite the fact that his pajama pants hide absolutely nothing and Alex must be able to tell. “I don’t understand.”

George pulls his fingers back, stares at the blood smeared across them. It’s barely anything, thinned out further by the saliva. Alex moans, low and wrecked, and when George looks up he sees Alex’s gaze trained on his hand, absolute hunger burning across his face. Not some tired metaphor for desire, but real hunger, the likes of which George has never seen.

Something clicks in George’s hindbrain, and the mysteries of the night fall neatly into place. The bite, the fever, the terror of proximity. Not fear of being hurt, George realizes now, but fear of hurting. His logical mind rebels at the absurdity, certain this is only the stuff of childhood horror stories and late-night superstition, and yet...

“Alexander.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Alex repeats with utter misery. “I shouldn’t have come.”

For a moment, George’s thoughts are nothing more than base emotion and instinct, firing between synapses and tugging at his chest. He holds his ground, and the storm abates, panic and horror retreating and leaving behind a clear set of options, risks laid out like battle plans. This is easy, familiar. Easier still to discard every option that leaves Alex hurt, or threatened, or subjected to unknown variables that could lead to the former two. Easiest of all to make the best choice, the only choice, as far as George is concerned.

“My poor boy,” George murmurs, earning a full-body shudder. His hand comes up, reaching for Alex without yet encroaching on his space. “Come with me.”

Alex stares at him with a wounded expression, but steps forward at George’s encouraging nod. He allows himself to be led across the room, though they stop often when Alex’s knees lock and he needs to lean into George. He keeps his face turned away, shielding his expression from George, but it isn’t difficult to surmise what lies there, scrawled across that ever-expressive face.

“Sir?” Alex winces against the bathroom light, ducking his head as George switches it on. In the fluorescence, it’s much easier to see the difference in him. His skin is ashen, his eyes too black in light that should be shrinking his pupils and pained where they look out from underneath his bangs.

“I know it’s too bright, but I need to see what I’m doing, and I need keep an eye on you. This won’t take long, I promise.”

Alex doesn’t respond, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle as he leans unsteadily against the bathroom wall.

George reluctantly tears his gaze away, stares into his mirror for a moment in an attempt to ground himself in the familiarity of his reflection and douse his ill-advised arousal. He takes in the lines around tired brown eyes and a solemn-set mouth, the gray hairs beginning to fleck his eyebrows. Over his shoulder, Alexander. Lithe, and young, and beautiful, with so many years ahead of him. That is, if George manages to get this right.

Would it be the worst thing, to give up a well-lived life for one just beginning?  

Painfully aware that he’s working against an unknown timeframe, George pulls himself from his thoughts and reaches for the vanity drawer, rifling through it and pulling out an opened package of razor blades. He won’t subject Alex to the trauma of biting him, and considering that they don’t know much about how this affliction is passed, this method might be slightly less damaging if done properly.

George pulls his shirt up over his head, tossing it over the bathtub. His skin feels ill-fitting for the first time in decades, and he resolutely doesn’t look Alex in the eye. “Easier to clean up afterwards,” he mutters, not sure why he feels the need to explain himself.

Alex says nothing, and George has to pull his mind away from analyzing what that could possibly mean. In his distraction, he slices his thumb picking the razor up. Alex sucks in a ragged breath, and George meets his gaze in the mirror. Hunger and trepidation war on Alex’s face, and his dark gaze drops, presumably to where George is still bleeding sluggishly along his collarbone.

“I need you to stay still for me, even if you want to come close,” George instructs gently. “We’re going to get you fed, but you need to wait until I say you can. Do you understand?”

Understanding and horror dawn in Alex’s eyes, the delay in their appearance, the flagging of Alex’s brilliant mind, only strengthening George’s resolve. “Sir.” Somehow, Alex manages to make the word a reproach, a plea, and an exclamation of disbelief, all at once.

George hushes him, running the razor under hot water. He doesn’t relish the idea of Alexander swallowing down rubbing alcohol, whatever his limitations may be now. There’s hardly anything sterile about drinking blood, so George can only hope a before-bed shower and a clean bill of health will be precaution enough.

Choosing where to cut is a bit more difficult -- his wrist might be easiest, but in a worst-case scenario he would need both hands to pull Alex off of him. Then there’s the matter of Alex, staring at his neck and not the cut on his hand, and staring with such open longing that George is loathe to deny him his preference, insane as it sounds even within the privacy of George’s own mind. All things considered, if the boy has a mind to tear George’s throat out, it won’t matter much where the initial cut was made.

“You don’t have to watch,” he says, prompted by the guilt creeping onto his boy’s face. Alex meets his gaze, and there’s something of a caught child in his look. With a bubble of nervous laughter that he barely manages to choke down, George supposes that makes him the treat.  

Alex juts his chin up slightly, some of his old stubbornness creeping into the firm set of his mouth. Unflinching. George smiles despite himself, fondness and pride surging through him.

George breaths deep, laying the razor to the junction between neck and shoulder as he exhales. Alex makes a wounded noise, as if he’s the one being sliced open. It’s a wet sound, and George forces himself to concentrate and not look up to check for tears.

The cut stings, even as George’s body catches on and endorphins starts to pour in. He doesn't want them, hates the way his hand wants to shake more than he appreciates the slight numbing. There’s something surreally calming about the entire experience, the warm rush of his own blood over his skin. At the very least, the pain dulls the last dregs of desire threaded through him, and he can work in peace.

George pulls his hand back, admiring his handiwork in the mirror for a moment. He makes a low sound of approval. It’s not surgical precision by any means, but the wound is bleeding freely. That’s all he needs, for the moment.

“There.” George lets out a long breath. “Are you alright, Alex?”

Alex whines, soft and plaintive, hand clamped over his mouth.

“I know,” George soothes. “Let’s get you back to bed, we can get comfortable.”

Alex just stares, eyes wide and ravenous, and follows without protest as George leads him back to bed. George lowers himself down, taking care not to jostle his shoulder much. He raises an eyebrow at Alex, hovering uncertainly by the bed.

“Come here, son.”

Alex settles beside him, every line of his body taut with unease. “Sir, I…” he rasps, trailing off with a gulp.

“It’s alright,” George murmurs. “It’s going to be alright, just come here.”

Alex climbs into his lap, and keeping still under those unsure movements is a herculean effort. George allows himself to savor the moment, the perfect weight settled across his thighs.

They stare at each other, emotions warring across Alex’s face. George swallows, slicking his tongue across his teeth to relieve the sudden dryness in his mouth. “Alex, you need to drink.”

Alex’s face twists with either pain or fear, and after a brief pause he shakes his head. He fixes George with a look that is all stubborn honor and duty, in spite of the clear need shining in his eyes. If Lawrence were still alive, George is certain his brother would laugh at the poetic justice of George having to reckon with what was once his own naive bravado.

“I need you alive,” George says quietly. Fury and admonishment have gotten him nowhere with this boy in that past. Honesty is all he has left, no matter how bare it flays him. “Do you understand that?” He raises a gentle hand to the back of Alex’s head, not quite pushing him forward yet, only cradling.

Alex holds his gaze for a moment, utterly terrified.

“Let me help you, son.”

Alex shuts his eyes, gulping loudly, and ducking his head. Short, warm breaths puff against George’s neck. George takes a moment to brace himself, eyes sliding closed. The first touch of Alex’s tongue against his skin is soft, unsure. A violent shudder wracks Alex’s frame, his stomach gurgling loudly in the otherwise perfect silence. He whines, plaintive and utterly heart-wrenching.

“Just like that,” George urges gently. He reaches to cup Alex’s hip in his hand -- too sharp, achingly close to the skin -- and squeezes softly. “Good boy.”

George feels the jolt that goes through the boy, hands gripping George’s shoulders as he presses forward with purpose, plastering himself against George’s chest as hunger overcomes him. Tongue, and then lips, pressing eagerly into the wound. Fondness overwhelms George as Alex nudges forward with his teeth, only to cover them with his lips a moment later. Starved to the point of exhaustion, and Alex is still taking care where he puts his teeth. George huffs a wet-sounding laugh despite the strange pain, holding Alex's head in place in case he changes his mind.

That, at least, seems unlikely. Alex can’t seem to get close enough, hips shifting against George’s as he squirms, gulping noisily. That’s just fine. He can take every drop, nothing in the world has ever been more freely given.

Alex slides his hand from George’s shoulder to press against the unmarred side of his neck. George hisses out a quiet breath, struggling for control while Alex lets out soft, pleased sounds and shifts in his lap.

Alex releases him in a rush, eyes wide and worried. Red slicked across his mouth, a beautiful contrast to his dark hair and golden skin. George’s heart stutters, and he swallows against the ache in his throat. Alex presses a hand to George’s chest, and for a gut-wrenching moment George thinks he’s scared the boy off, that Alex will push him away again and bolt before drinking his fill. But as Alex pushes his palm forward, visibly relaxing as George’s heart thuds against it, George realizes Alex thought the sound he made was out of pain.

George smiles softly, rubs his thumb in slow circles at the base of Alex’s skull. “I’m fine, you can take more.”

“But...” Alex protests, though his hungry gaze is already drifting back to the mess he left.

“Drink,” George orders, as much of a command as he knows how to give.

Alex shudders as he complies, letting out a quiet, delighted sound as he latches back onto George’s neck.

Messy and inelegant though it is, there’s a strange sort of satisfaction in watching the change in his boy. Alex is growing stronger with each mouthful, blooming under George’s hands in a way that makes the pain sweet. His head starts to swim, but Alex is pulling from him slowly now, instead of the desperate mouthfuls from before. George rests his head against the back of the bed and focuses on his breathing.

Alex pulls back after a few moments, and George blinks the haze from his eyes and looks at his boy properly. Alex’s skin is flushed and dewy, his temperature substantially cooler under George’s hands. Alex looks healthier than George has ever seen him, and smug satisfaction unfolds in his chest at the sight of it.

Alex sighs with relief and presses his forehead to George’s. “Thank you,” he says, so quietly George can barely hear it over the rush in his ears, only feels the breath from the words ghosting over his lips. “Thank you, George.” He moves back to George’s neck, slicking his tongue over the wound and sending a flash of heat down George’s body, numbing the soreness there and tugging at his barely-banked arousal.

Alex hums happily and curls up against George’s chest, stroking a hand over his arm, and George’s heart aches so acutely that he wonders if Alex took too much after all. He rests his chin on Alex’s head, grateful for the support, grateful for the proximity.

They stay this way for a few moments, Alex curled around him, breathing slow and steady against his neck. George relishes every moment that passes, trying to burn every breath and touch into his memory.

“You should lie down,” Alex says, his words almost slurred. Blood drunk, if that’s possible. Lord only knows what any of it will mean, going forward.

George nods slowly, not trusting his voice yet. His heart clenches, body aching as Alex starts to pull back, and he digs his hands into the bed sheet as he lowers himself to stop himself from doing something unforgivably stupid, like taking Alex by the hips and trapping him against George’s body, warm and perfect.

But Alex doesn’t go far, lowering himself down onto the bed as soon as George is settled. “I’m so tired, can I just...”

“Stay.” George winces slightly at his own voice, hoarse and unfamiliar. He clears his throat, tries again. “How do you feel?”

Alex smiles, sleepy and pleased. “Full,” he says, with something not unlike awe. “Warm.”

George can only nod dumbly, relief and want tying up his tongue.

“Can I…” Alex’s gaze falls to the sliver of space between them. He shifts forward, hesitant in a way he rarely is. “It helps, you…”

Blood loss might have slowed George’s thought process, but he understands this quickly enough. He reaches out a hand, and is immediately rewarded by Alex’s body against his. The ache in his bones dissipates almost at once. By the soft, relieved huff Alex lets out, the proximity soothes something in him, as well.

Alex licks his neck again, not hungry now, but… the only description George can think of is that it feels proprietary. It feels damned good, and he’s not about to question it.

“Does it hurt?” Alex murmurs, the concern in his voice enough to pierce through George’s haze.

George rolls his shoulder experimentally, surprised at the only vaguely dull throb the movement provokes. “Not much, just a bit sore.”

That, at least, seems to bring Alex some relief. “That was a really fucking stupid thing to do, sir.”

George regards him levelly. “I would do it again,” he says, deciding it’s wiser not to mention that, in all likelihood, he _will_ have to do it again. The thought is not nearly as unappealing as it should be. They’ll have to talk about this later, to try and navigate this strange new facet of their relationship, but right now Alex is safe and well-fed, and George wouldn’t compromise that for anything in the world.

Alex huffs, derisive and so perfectly familiar. He doesn’t comment further, only tucks his face against George’s uninjured shoulder. Carefully, so as not to disturb his wound or his boy, George drapes an arm across Alex’s body, eyeing the window worriedly. He’s not sure what will happen when sunlight spills through, or if Alex will emerge from his sated haze only to be horrified and suicidal with panic. He tightens his grip unintentionally, and Alex lets out a low whine.

“Sorry,” George murmurs, but the offense already seems forgotten, Alex stretching out languidly against his body.

“I’m right here,” Alex promises, and when he lifts his head to meet George’s gaze, there’s a knowing look there. “Go to sleep, George.”

Alex tucks his head back into place, and within minutes his breathing evens out. George fights sleep for as long as he can, keeping watch against God knows what, but Alex’s warmth and the dull throb in his neck slowly but surely pull him down into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> * I purposefully kept what type of creature Alex was vague, since I dislike adhering to strict rules of that kind. However, aside from the bite transferring the condition, you might also notice that George invites Alex in at the beginning, and while I didn't write this under the assumption George was under any compulsion other than his emotions, the argument is there if you want to make it.
> 
> * I'm on Tumblr at [icarusandtheson](https://icarusandtheson.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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